TO MY SISTER SUE

November 29, 1955—June 27, 1993 After you died, I determined to live more worthy, left work I was not sure about, took up my pen.

It’s been twenty-four years. I’ve spiraled back toward something maybe like god, but not

the one I thought I knew, for how could that one have let you die despite

our prayers. How could it allow so damned much pain. The pottery monk you gave me

stands with his folded hands, beautific smile, next to a jade tree in a green pot. Your photo hangs

on my study wall, your face pensive, dark eyes gazing toward something I cannot see.